


to share

by SapphyreLily



Series: Tendrils of a Dream [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Dreamscape AU, F/M, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 15:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13033791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: The easiest form of sibling rivalry - refusing to divvy up, to split portions andsharewith each other.





	to share

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bianoyami (poeticalcreation)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticalcreation/gifts).



> Idk what I'm doing

The grey-brown fox in your lap pushes at your hand, his cold nose making you laugh. He pushes further until your fingers fall on his forehead, until your fingers smooth over the fur, pressing back his ears.

His gold eyes plead with you, even as he presses more insistently against you.

Pet me, he seems to say. A demand, not a request. Pet me.

You laugh, but comply.

You would never tell him that you do it not just because he demands so, but also because he is soft. So soft, the sensation pleasing on your fingertips, the addicting feel of smooth fur sliding under your hand. Because he is warm and rumbly, the pleased growl-purr he makes as your fingernails scratch his forehead, the thicker fur on his cheeks.

This is contentment.

But there’s a whine, a yip, and another fox you know well comes barrelling in. Slides under your arm, situating himself atop the other, until you are petting red-gold and no longer grey-brown.

You almost roll your eyes, and the warning shriek of your eagle makes the red-gold one look up, sniffing at the air.

He’s not fazed. Not one bit.

You’re a little miffed, but he turns his attentions to you, the red-gold fox, and the tongue lolling out of his mouth makes you snort. Just a little.

He’s ridiculous, this one, but his innocence makes him endearing.

(You say innocence, but you know better.)

(He’s a trickster.)

The grey-brown fox bucks, throwing off your arm with the force of it. He turns around and snaps at his brother, but the red-gold one has hopped away, yipping and bouncing – prancing, taunting, and his brother gives in, jumping out of your lap for the chase.

You lean back, arms supporting you in a field of swaying clover. Wind buffets you from behind, and a weight settles on your right shoulder, the sharpness of talons dulled by the padding you wear.

You look up, but you know what you’ll find – majesty, wrapped in black-tipped feathers, intelligence glinting in brown-gold eyes. Yet, no matter how many times you behold him, your amazement will never cease. How glorious, how wonderful, this bird of prey! And yet he choses to stick by you – your self-appointed protector. You are safe. You are always safe, with him.

Another buffeting of wind, but lighter, this time. Not as heavy, not as powerful. The pinpricks of pain on your shoulder are still the same, and you, too, recognise this weight.

You twist to stare down the hawk; it stares back, its gold-hazel unrelenting. You wrinkle your nose at it; it lifts a wing to preen, blocking your view of its face. Or perhaps, it is to block its view of your face – knowing this bird, it could very well be the latter.

You’d never thought you’d meet someone who enjoyed being so irritating and dare you say, ungrateful.

But your eagle enjoys his companion, and you would begrudge him this, because now, you have four protectors in your little grove. It is a warm place, with so many more.

The eagle screeches – you follow his vision, eyes landing on the squabbling foxes, tumbling over each other, snapping and yipping and being a nuisance. The sharpness on your shoulders exacerbates, then disappears as eagle and hawk launch themselves at the foxes, diving at them until they back off of each other.

You sigh. Sometimes, it is a zoo, and not a haven.

You don’t mind, most of the time.

The foxes come loping back, the red-gold one in the lead. He hops into your lap, resting his head and paws on your thigh. You know what he wants, and roll your eyes. But you do not hesitate, and your fingers come down, rubbing at the spot between his eyes as he so enjoys, stroking back the fur, scratching his head and letting him rub his face on your fingers.

The grey-brown fox sits before you. If a fox could look sour, this would be it. Ears laid back, but not snarling, eyes narrowed, frame tense, as if to pounce–

The red-gold fox yips and leaps out of your lap in surprise at the bite, laying back his ears when his gaze lands on his brother. They growl at each other, circling, circling; neither giving in, and while it is amusing, perhaps, it can get old fast.

Why can’t you two share, you wonder aloud. They turn towards you, and now you’re looking _up_ – up at a pair of arguing brothers, the most annoying kind.

Sharing is caring, the grey-haired one says, arms folded, features hard.

Sharing means its mine, the blond retorts. He’s in a crouch, halfway ready to attack, almost too fox-like to pass as human.

You sigh. Loudly. Hoping it would draw their attention.

It does, thankfully.

I have two arms, you remind them. You can share.

But–, the blond begins, and now his brother does charge him, pounces him, and you have a pair of yipping and snarling foxes tearing up the grass again.

You sigh and settle in to wait.

You hear wingbeats – but they’re too light to be your eagle’s. You don’t turn around, but a hand on your shoulder makes you look up.

The brunette places a finger on his lips, the slightest smile gracing them, winks surreptitiously. He sits, lays down, and to your abject horror, places his head in your lap.

Play along, he mouths, reaching up to tug on your hair lightly.

You wrinkle your nose at him – it seems to be an action that you associate with him and his ridiculous ideas fairly often. But your hand reaches forward, smooths his uneven bangs out of his eyes, pressing them back and watching them stand, fall, lie back down against his forehead.

Stop messing my hair up, he grumbles, but you have no inclination to do so. If he insists on this ridiculous charade, you are going to make the best of it by making him play the fool.

He shoots up suddenly, nearly knocking into you, and you watch as the hawk squares off against the red-gold fox, screeching and snarling assaulting your ears. You can guess what happened, and nearly tell them to stop it – but it must have been a cultivated part of the hawk’s plan, for he does nothing more than to scold the fox before flying off, disappearing within the branches of a tree.

Something cold pokes your hand, refocusing your attention. A grey-brown head wriggles under your arm, gold eyes staring at you mournfully. At the corner of your eye, the red-gold fox trots up to you, his ears lowered, nosing your hand almost regretfully.

You can’t help it; you reach for him as well, until you have one fox under each arm – their silence says everything. You don’t have to look up to see the knowing gaze of the hawk – you know what he has done, and you nod a little. He will see. He would probably receive your thanks – but he is not your favourite bird of prey, and who knows what he might really think.

Are you ready to share? You ask the foxes, and despite the lag time, both nod.

And then you have two large, warm bodies pressed against you. One has his arms wrapped around your torso; one around your shoulders.

Sorry.

Sorry.

It echoes a little, with one following after the other. Maybe sincere, maybe not. Because you know, they would do it again. The fighting, the non-sharing, but since they make up so quickly–

I forgive you.

They’re your favourite foxes, after all.

Yay. The blond’s grip tightens around your shoulders, tugging you off balance – you fall, slipping out of the other’s grasp, until you are half-sitting in his lap. He buries his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, nuzzling at the skin. His silent affection warms you, and you are tempted; you press the lightest of kisses against the curve of his ear.

There is warmth at your back, sudden, encompassing, complete. It’s like a cocoon now, a sandwich, but you don’t mind all that much. You turn your head, and he is there – the grey-haired man frowns at you, and you smile, lean in, peck him on the nose.

I adore you too.

You don’t need to say the words, because you have actions – and foxes, they prefer action to words, most times.

It is warm in your fox-human-fox sandwich, warm enough to sleep.

But you resist, for the moment, because you want this – to experience this wholly, to feel and savour this moment.

The firmness of muscle under your hands, the tickle of hair in your nose. The scent of the wild and grass, the pulsing of blood in veins where you are pressed so tightly together.

The comfort, of being surrounded by those you love, in a place where you can be yourself, and free.

The stars are overhead – when it became night, you know not. But your eyelids are suddenly heavy, and slumber calls.

Perhaps you give in, drifting off to the _thump-thump_ of heartbeats that mimic your own, only stronger, wilder. In the background, an eagle and a hawk screech – reminders, that you are not alone. That you have others who will watch your back.

You smile.


End file.
